Page 59 of The Hate We Breathe
“Is there something funny?” Darrio asks.
I pick up the mezcal bottle. After so many gulps of the stuff, it’s actually going down a little easier and, shit, I need the booze to deal with this piece of shit.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “A lot is fucking funny.”
“Oh?” Darrio leans back against the cushioned back of the booth and stretches one arm over the top of it. “Tell me.”
“It’s funny that you’re here, demanding my attention, because you blame me for your son leaving you when the truth is—you forced him out.”
His expression turns thunderous and the hand hanging over the booth’s seat curls into a fist. I laugh and shake my head as I pour two more shots.
“That pisses you off.” I shove one of the glasses into his chest and he takes it with gritted teeth and narrowed eyes. “But it’s the truth. All yourboys,” I scoff as I look at the four men guarding the booth, “are too afraid of you to tell you that, but I’m not.”
Darrio slams back his glass of mezcal and then nearly shatters it when he brings it down hard on the table. “You should be, little girl.”
I take my sweet-ass time drinking my liquor, holding his gaze as I lick a drop of it from the rim and then set it to my mouth and down the stuff. I close my eyes as another wave of heat burns a path straight down my throat.
“Your son is worth ten of you.” I don’t look away when he slides nearer and when his other hand snaps out and his hand wraps around my throat, I keep my voice steady. “And if you hurt me, he’ll fucking kill you.”
His fingers dig into my throat, thumbs pressing against the hollow like he wants to snap my neck. “You think you’re worth more than a quick fuck, you little cunt?” His spit flecks hot against my cheek, a rancid mix of liquor and rage invading my nostrils. His other hand rises, flat and poised, a storm waiting to strike.
I bare my teeth at him in the facsimile of a smile. “Do it,” I challenge. “See what happens. I dare you.”
For a second, the cruel gleam in his eye flickers—anticipation, madness. Then his arm cuts through the air. My smile widens. He’s so fucking dead and he doesn’t even know it.
Before the crack of his palm can land, another hand bursts over the top of the booth, iron-strong, snapping around his wrist mid-swing. I blink, surprised. The force makes the whole table rattle. I twist my head up and my stomach plummets—it’s not Lex. It’s Viks.
A pitch-black gaze and jaw sharp enough to split bone, fury carved into every line of him, he glowers down at Darrio Vargas with all of the respect one might show a cockroach.
“I don’t know what kind of place you think this is,” Viks growls, voice steady, calm—the kind of calm that makes the hairs on your arms rise. “But putting your hands on her?” A muscle tics on the underside of his jaw. “Not an option.”
Now, I see it. The possibility that Viks and Lex could be related just skyrocketed because I’ve never seen anyone else with that same level of insanity in their eyes.
Darrio jerks, twisting, trying to break free, but Viks doesn’t budge. His grip is a shackle. Darrio looks like a caged animal thrashing uselessly, and for once, I’m not the prey.
“Juliet.” Viks’ gaze slices to me for a brief second before returning to Darrio. “You good?”
My head feels heavy, the liquor taking effect and forcing every thought to sludge through mezcal-laced mud before it gets out. I manage a sloppy thumbs-up. “Peachy—hic—keen.” The hiccup bursts from me, and I clap a hand over my mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter I can’t contain.
Viks’ scowl deepens, thunder in his expression. “You’re drunk.”
Pinching two fingers together, leaving barely a sliver of space between them, I offer him a sheepish grin. “Little bit.” Another hiccup follows the words and it sets me off once more. I giggle like an idiot, even as the man who had his hands on me seconds ago simmers with humiliation, his face blotched red with rage.
“You should—hic—see your face.” I snort, leaning back in the booth. “Priceless.”
“You fucking bitch?—”
“Enough.” Viks’ voice slices clean through his snarl. With one vicious jerk, he yanks Darrio out of his seat, dragging him up and over the booth’s divider like he weighs nothing. The sound of impact—flesh, bone, wood—echoes when he hits the ground on the other side.
“Whoa…” My laughter sputters into silence.
“Boss!”
“Hey!”
The men that Darrio had brought with him finally seem to realize that something’s wrong. They launch themselves into the booth as Darrio’s kicking legs go up and over the top of the barrier. The sound of masculine cursing as well as flesh hitting flesh ricochets from the other side.
“Oh, my god!” The feminine shriek that pierces through the otherwise stunned silence surrounding me drives an audible knife through my skull.
